


Look At Where We Started

by ErinBurr_sir



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Hurt, Set after Left Behind, Slight spoilers, mentions of domestic abuse, not so subtle coldwave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6650518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinBurr_sir/pseuds/ErinBurr_sir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard Snart had always been good at hiding his emotions. It was one of the few constants in his life, one of the things he could depend on to never change. That and Mick. However, Mick is no longer Mick, and Leonard soon finds he is about to lose his other constant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look At Where We Started

**Author's Note:**

> Because Len's been through so much and keeping everything inside is unhealthy.

Leonard Snart had always loved the cold.

Ever since he was a child, the cold had always filled him with an indescribable feeling, a mix of excitement and comfort and happiness all rolled into one. The cold was clarity and purity, a breath of fresh air that unclouded the mind and chased away all of life's troubles. His fondest childhood memories -- perhaps his _only_ pleasant childhood memories -- were spent sitting in a kitchen chair he had perched in front of a window, a blanket wrapped around him, watching as snow silently fell to carpet the world in white. When it snowed, every pressing problem in his life -- protecting his sister, fighting his father, tending to his wounds when he inevitably lost -- were all muffled, melted away to a distant echo. And when he stepped outside into the freezing air, coat forgotten? God, that was the best feeling in the world, the moment when he opened the door to receive that initial blast of arctic air, lungs and eyes burning, the hair on his arms standing on end, adrenaline coursing through his body, skin tingling. It was the same feeling he got every time he fired his gun, what kept him going in the heat of battle, that invigorating rush of cool air urging him on even while his bones ached and his muscles screamed for relief.

Leonard Snart loved the cold and he _loved_ snow.

Water, however? That was a different story.

While snowy days were spent inside, warmly huddled in blankets around the fireplace, mugs of hot cocoa keeping small hands warm, rainy days were like a prison sentence (and he should know) -- confined inside, closing him off from the entire world. The walls of the house seemed to close in around him, as if the rain were shrinking the house like a cheap sweater. While the snow muffled the world, the rain intensified it -- drenching everything in sight, making the outside world look shiny and distorted, like somebody had wrapped it in plastic. The sound alone was enough to drive him off the wall -- so loud and obnoxious, like a child banging pots and pans together; those people who listened to rain sounds to fall asleep were idiots just asking to get up in the middle of the night to pee. And the _smell?_ Nothing better than the smell of must and cowshit to start your day, right?

Leonard Snart hated water.

And he _especially_ hated when it was coming out of his eyes.

He hadn't meant for it to happen; in fact, everything had been going just fine until then. He and Sara had been playing cards together on the bridge, sprawling themselves and their multitude of cards on the floor in front of Rip's office (or as they and Jax liked to call it, his Lair of Brooding), much to his annoyance. For his sake, though, they had laid off the jokes; the _Waverider_ had been docked in the Temporal Zone for days now (if it was even possible to count days in a void where time did not exist) as Rip plotted their next move against Savage. His office was covered in old newspaper clippings and crumpled up balls of paper and way too many question marks, and it looked as if he hadn't left there since their escape from 1960; he was looking even more disheveled and grumpy than usual. Fortunately, Sara and Gideon had been able to persuade him to leave his office for a much-needed snack at the conclusion of their card game, though he did so grudgingly.

Len had been putting the mismatched sets of cards back in their boxes when Palmer -- fucking Palmer -- had entered the bridge, that completely infuriatingly innocent and naïve look on his face.

"Hey, what should we do with this?" He asked, gesturing to something in his hands. Normally, Len didn't pay too much attention to anything that came out of that kid's mouth -- it was mostly cannon fodder for him and Sara to mock later, anyway. But then he noticed what was in his hands.

It was Mick's gun. However, it took Leonard a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. The gun was inactive, safety on, the bright orange light that normally glowed out of the sides dimmed, the familiar hum it produced as it prepared another blast of fire absent from the air. It was grey, as if all light and life had been sucked out of it.

It looked dead.

And something about seeing Mick's prized weapon in that sad state, in _fucking Palmer's hands_ … it snapped something within Len. His throat caught. His stomach twisted; he felt nauseous. His eyes burned. He stood up suddenly and walked hurriedly toward the exit, head down, unable to look Ray in the face. He continued through the _Waverider_ 's twisting hallways, his only concern getting to his room, _quick_. The only person he passed was Kendra.

"Hey, are you okay?" She asked, but he pushed on. He had to get to his room. His eyes were burning. The world looked blurry.

When he finally reached his room, he waited until the door whooshed shut behind him before he sunk back against it. His heart was beating a mile a minute. His hands were shaking. His throat ached. He hugged himself, trying to stop the shaking, trying to hold it all together, like he had as kid.

But just like when he was kid, it was no use.

The tears came anyway. One after another, until he was sobbing, chest heaving, face soaked, hands balled into fists, pressing against his temples, _beating_ against his head to _stop_. This was _not_ how things should have gone, not at all.

Mick had been his partner, his best friend, his … _Mick_. The one person who was always there for him, through everything. Despite all the shit they had been through both together and apart, they had always pulled out on top. They had always been there to reach out a hand when the other had fallen, to smile and wipe away the grime of battle, to make the quiet and lonely nights a little less lonely and a little less quiet. When Len thought of family, he thought of Lisa and Mick. But when he thought of _home_ , the only face that appeared was Mick's. They were supposed to together through it all, until the end.

Then Mick had betrayed them.

 _I should have left him in 2046,_ Len thought bitterly for not the first time, as he stubbornly tried to wipe some of the tears off his face. _He had been happy there._

And he _had_ been happy there, happier than Len had ever seen him -- happier in that desolate mess than he had ever been with him. Maybe that was why Len had made him leave. He had told Mick it was for the mission, as his eyes stared at the floor, the wall, his gun, everything and anything but Mick's face. His father had taught him very early the basics of lying, and Len had always followed them to a T. But Mick wasn't some sucker to be conned. He was Mick.

And he had betrayed them.

Len had told the others he would take care of it. He had seen his teammates' eyes, the look that said they knew what 'take care of it' meant. And if it had anyone else, anyone but Mick, they would be right. They had wanted him dead; and for a brief moment, so did Leonard. But when he had taken him out to that forest and finally looked into his eyes, he hadn't seen the man who had sold them out to time pirates; he saw the teenager who had saved him in juvie all those years ago. That was why was he switched his target; why, hands shaking, he had moved his gun a fraction of an inch so didn't shoot Mick. That was why he had left Mick in that forest. Despite everything that had happened, he was still Mick, always too rash and always too hot-headed to make the right decisions. He just needed some time to cool down, to realize his mistake. And then Leonard would come back for him and everything would be better.

Then the Time Masters decided to ruin his plans (that was the only thing they seemed to be good at, he thought wryly as more tears leaked out of his eyes).

Len thought back to that awful moment, when Chronos had taken off his helmet to reveal Mick's face underneath. He remembered the cold dread that filled his body, the numbness that spread to his legs and arms. The ringing in his ears, the screaming in his head.

The tears in his eyes.

The anger that filled him when the man who had once been his best friend smiled as he threatened to kill Lisa, his baby sister, the last person he had left now. The sickness at knowing he would do it, and laugh while he did. Mick had always had a cruel and vindictive side; it had just never been directed towards him.

After Chronos -- no, Mick, it was still Mick, the helmet made no difference -- had abandoned Len on that timeship, the screaming in his head had only gotten louder.

_How? Why? No … Mick … can't … not possible … Chronos … Waverider … Lisa … Sara … dead … he wouldn't … he WOULD … he can't … he WILL … my fault … stranded him … alone … my fault … my fault …. Lisa Sara … dead … LisaSara dead … LisaSaradead …. dead … my fault … myfault … deaddeaddead …. myfaultmyfaultmyfault …._

His fault.

He had to save them -- all of them -- Sara and Rip and all the others -- and especially Mick from killing each other. He _had_ to get off this ship … had to save them … his fault …

He remembered the agonizing burning sensation when he had fired his gun on his hand, as if every nerve in his body were on fire. The terrifying emptiness at seeing his hand right in front of him, blue and black and frozen, but unable to feel a thing, flesh and nerves and muscle all dead. He shuddered now when he thought back to the sickening crunch of ice and bone breaking into a million pieces, the _pain_ as hand was ripped from body. Stomach in knots as he resisted the urge to vomit at the sight of the stump that used to be a hand. There was no blood, no tendons sticking out, nothing to indicate any sort of excruciating agony. It just … ended.

But he had pushed that all aside, swallowed his pride and his vomit and the screams still caught in his throat, begging to get out. Wrapped his stump in his shirt and used every ounce of energy left within his tired and broken body to find the others. _Please let me get there in time. Please,_ he had silently begged, _don't let me be too late._

_Deaddeaddeaddead …_

_My fault …_

He had gotten there just in time, but at what cost? Mick was alive. Sara and the others were alive. But Mick was in the brig, swearing to kill them all, and Len knew deep inside that he meant every word. Rip was wrong; there was no "fixing" Mick. There was no undoing what the Time Masters had done, what _he_ had done.

His fault, his fault, his fault …

He should have swallowed his pride and told Mick the truth, been mature and solved their problems with words instead of fists. Maybe then Mick would have understood, wouldn't have felt compelled to betray them. No … he shouldn't have brought Mick on this mission at all; they should have stayed in 2016, broke and wanted by the law but _together._

That was all he had ever wanted.

Leonard cried until his voice was hoarse, longing for the better days of heists and adventures and Mick by his side.

"Mr. Snart," a soft voice interrupted. Gideon. "Should I call for somebody?"

It hurt too much to talk, so he shook his head, not even knowing if the AI could see. He assumed she could, she could do just about everything else.

She didn't respond. Instead, there was a small clicking sound. He looked up. The screen on the wall beside his bed -- the "Magic Window" as Kendra had dubbed it -- had switched from its default scene of a green field to a cityscape. Snow was falling. The whole world was blanketed in white. It was quiet, peaceful.

It was perfect.

He pulled himself off the cold metal floor and crawled into bed, wrapping the blanket around him, watching the snow fall. He still sniffled, and taking a deep breath without shuddering was impossible, but his heart rate had slowed to a normal speed; his hands were no longer shaking. The screaming in his head had died down to merely a whisper. If he concentrated hard enough, he was seven years old once again, his mother and infant sister beside him, a fire crackling behind them, warming their backs; or twenty-one, a pack of beers and Mick by his side, feet dangling over the roof of some abandoned warehouse, watching as quiet descended over Central City; or forty-two, in the passenger seat of his old yellow Buick, Lisa at the wheel and Mick in the back seat, cold January air in his face and Iron Heights in the rearview mirror.

After a while, Gideon announced dinner was ready. Leonard sighed and sat up, stretching his tired limbs and wiping his still wet eyes. He found his discarded boots and put them on. Changed his tear-stained shirt. Looked in the mirror at his bloodshot eyes and red nose. Splashed cold water on his face, scrubbed it raw with a damp washcloth. Repeat. Donned his jacket. Assembled his story (reading in his room). Took one last shaky breath before opening the door and walking down to the mess hall.

The others greeted him when he entered, Sara and Kendra with a smile, the others with a simple nod. They had already started eating without him, so he took his seat at the end of the bench, sat back while the others joked and laughed and mocked one of Ray's Boy Scout stories.

For that, Len was thankful.  
Because if anyone had paid him any attention they would have noticed the puffy bags under his eyes, the faraway look in his eyes, and shoulders heavy with the weight of past mistakes and words left unsaid.


End file.
